Designated Driver
by Whatclaptrap
Summary: Stiles calls Derek at two in the morning. Derek is unamused.
1. Chapter 1

The phone ringing felt like a hammer beating against Derek's eardrums.

It wasn't often that the Beacon Hills alpha scrambled for anything. He generally stalked, strode, charged or leapt for something. Scrambling was a new one. But it was two AM, and though he had patrolled at times like this before, he'd spent yesterday trying to research what exactly it was that a pack of alphas could do to him and dealing with Peter being… Peter.

Derek glowered at the phone, squinting against the light of its screen. It took a moment for the letters on the screen to resolve themselves in his brain. It was a call. From Stiles. At two in the morning.

Derek scowled. He thought about hanging up, or maybe crushing the phone. Instead he answered it.

"What, Stiles?" He snapped.

"_ssssS_Derek! Oh my god Derek. Hi. Youushave no idea how glad I am you answered. No idea." Stiles was slurring. And stuttering. And repeating himself. And Derek was having a hard time thinking of a reason that he shouldn't hang up.

"Call Scott if you're going to drunk dial someone," He growled.

"Wh—I am not _drunk_," Stiles said, sounding offended. "An'… an' stinkin', captain of the lacrosse team, wolfy, stupid, wolf face Scott won't pick up th' phone! I do everything, _everything_, for that guy, and he just—" There was a thud and a scuffle and Stiles gave a little tinny yelp. Derek pinches the bridge of his nose and growls. A moment later, there's the sound of fabric sweeping across the phone speaker, and Stiles is back on the line. "…I fell."

"You are literally fall down drunk. Walk home, and sleep it off," Derek said, wishing for not the first time that alpha dominance would work on Stiles. It would be amazing to get that kid to do something not stupid the first time around.

"But I'm _not drunk_!" It was the most clear sentence that Stiles had said so far.

Derek stayed on the line for a moment longer, wishing that he could glare Stilinski into submission. Wishing, unsurprisingly, didn't work. The next thing that Stiles said had the low, conspiratorial tone to it that made Derek want to bash his head into the nearest wall.

"I've been _roofied_."

"Why do you think you've been roofied?" Derek asked, glowering at the ceiling. He didn't ask _who would roofie you_, but he kind of wanted to.

"'Causeeeee I've been drunk before, duh! An' this, this is all… woobly." Stiles said. "And, and and, I counted, I counted, I had…three drinks! Three. Twooo rum and cokes and this thing, it's, it was like, a shitty margarita but_anyways_ I should not be this fuckeded up."

Derek continued to glower at the ceiling. That was concerning. Even being a human and being more sensitive to alcohol, Stiles did drink, and Stiles didn't get drunk that easy. Also, Stiles had just said _fuckeded_, and that was borderlining on pathetic.

Derek got out of bed. He didn't groan, even though he wanted to. He couldn't believe he was going to do this. "Where are you?"

"Out at—okay there'ssh this place, it's like, out—" Stiles stumbled over his own words. Derek rolled his eyes as he tugged on pants.

"_Where_, Stiles?"

"Th' slaughterhouse," Stiles said, finally. "There was a party. It's back in the woods—"

"I know where it is," Derek said, cutting Stiles off. The slaughterhouse was exactly what it sounded like; an old slaughterhouse where kids sometimes went to party. Of course he knew. It had existed when he'd lived here too. "Go sit in your jeep. I'll come get you."

"Oh my god thank you—" Stiles started. Derek hung up.

This was the sort of thing, he reflected, that he was supposed to do for pack. Not for the human friends of people who were pack, or who should have been pack.

Stiles was really going to owe him for this.


	2. Chapter 2

When Stiles flailed his way into the passenger seat of the Camaro, Derek wrinkled his nose. He smelled like smoke and bad liquor and, yes, he smelled like drugs too.

Stiles squirmed around, trying twice before he managed to fasten the seatbelt with a click. Then Stiles realized that Derek was staring at him. He got that look on his face, halfway between indignant and hurt. "What?!"

"Congratulations, Stiles," Derek said, shifting the car into drive and gunning it. "You were right."

"I was right…?" Stiles repeated the words, squinting a little. Like he'd completely forgotten about the reason he'd called Derek in the first place.

Derek glanced over with arched eyebrows, long enough to give Stiles his 'you're-stupid' glare. "About being _drugged?"_

"Oh. Oh!" Stiles jumped in his seat, spinning around to stare at the side of Derek's face as Derek tried to focus on driving. "How ffff—wait, how can you tell? Are you, like, sniffing me, cauuuse I'm not sure I'm totally completely one hundred percent comfy—comfortable with that—"

Derek's nostrils flared, and he grit his teeth. He couldn't shove Stiles out of a moving car. Shoving Stiles out of a moving car would be bad. "_Yes_. You smell like drugs." He sniffed, just to be sure. "Pharmaceuticals. Not weed or club drugs."

"Whyyy do you know what club drugs smell like?" Stiles asked. He blinked unevenly at Derek, one eye moving slower than the other, which was somewhat concerning.

"That doesn't matter," Derek snapped. "Tell me what happened."

Stiles didn't argue, complain, or push the subject any further. That fact made Derek even more concerned. Instead, Stiles heaved a deep sigh and stared out the window as half-illuminated trees flickered by. "S'just a party. Lydia was going, so I went too."

"Lydia," Derek repeated. He still hadn't forgiven her for what she did. Plus her actions had led to Jackson turning into a wolf. If there was one person Derek didn't want in his pack, it was Jackson.

"Yeah. She's still messed up about it, y'know? The supernatural stuff." Stiles wiggled his fingers around the word _supernatural. _ "So she kinda went without Jackson an' I was hoping…"

"I'm not interested in your nonexistent love life, Stiles," Derek growled. Especially not when the focus of Stiles's affection was Lydia Martin. They pulled out of the forest and he sped up when they hit city streets. "Focus. Party. Drugs."

Stiles managed to focus a glare at Derek. "_Fine_. Jackass," he slurred. Derek spared him a dark glower. Stiles acquiesced after a moment, flopping his hands in the air. "Okay. Jackass that kinda was th' only one who was picking up th' phone—okay okay _fine_ I'm sorry! Anyhow so I got the bar guy t' give me booze an' I got Lydia a drink, an', well, she ignored me an' so I drank th' one for her an' the one for me, an' I think hers was the one that was s'posed to be drugged."

"So you were accidentally roofied," Derek said. He wanted to make sure he understood, because this was both unsurprisingly Stiles and also almost made him feel sorry for the kid.

"Guess so," Stiles muttered. He leaned back into the seat, crossing his arms across his stomach.

The car was blessedly silent while Stiles pondered. Derek glared at the road ahead of them. He wanted to go home. He wanted to sleep. He wondered why in the hell he was picking up Stiles in the middle of the night when Stiles wasn't even pack.

Stiles made a noise in the back of his throat. Then he reached, scrabbling for the door handle. "Pull over," he squeaked, and this is one time where Derek didn't ask any questions, because his Camaro had had enough done to it over the past few months.

Stiles yanked open the door and stumbled over to the sidewalk before he puked. Derek wrinkled his nose, looking away as the car idled. He listened to Stiles retch, and he grimaced. He wouldn't say that he liked Stiles, exactly, but if this were one of his pack he wouldn't leave them to face the night alone. Not with whatever drugs Stiles got dosed with.

He listened to Stiles breathe and tried to ignore the smell. Stiles wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stumbled back to the car.

"It's not too much farther," Derek said, watching as Stiles ineffectively battered the seat belt against the buckle.

"Stop lookin' at me," Stiles said, reaching out and trying to shove Derek's face back around to look at the road. He finally managed to click the seat belt into the buckle, and Derek considered biting Stiles's hand. "With your eyes an' your teeth and your glaring…"

Derek fixed that very same glare at Stiles, letting his eyes flash red. Stiles withdrew his hand with a quiet and slurred "oh dear god why."

Derek pulled away from the curb, leaving the patch of puke behind. They drove in silence. The Alpha eyes had the intended affect, and Stiles didn't say another word.

They pulled up to Stiles's house not much later, and Derek had to stifle a snarl. Stiles, surprisingly agile, undid the seatbelt and cracked open the door before Derek grabbed his arm.

"Where is your dad?" Derek bit out.

"Wha—huh? Oh. Night shift. 'Cause. Y'know. Police an' stuff." Stiles flailed his hands, leaning with an awkward tilt towards the open door. Derek was the only thing keeping Stiles from slipping to the pavement outside. "Protect an' swerve. Did I just say swerve? I just said swerve. Serve._Serve_."

Derek ground his teeth. As much as he just wanted to go home and sleep, he couldn't leave Stiles home alone. Not when the kid was this messed up.

Jerking Stiles back into the seat, Derek pulled the Camaro into the Stilinski family driveway and parked. He ignored Stiles's confused noises. He turned off the car as Stiles continued to sputter, and he even managed to get out of the car before Stiles launched himself onto the lawn.

"But-house-_my_ house—" Stiles sputtered.

Derek arched his eyebrows at Stiles. "Are you going to open the door?"

Stiles scrabbled over, slipping on the wet lawn and nearly managing to faceplant on the grass. He didn't. Derek followed, rolling his eyes, as Stiles attempted to unlock the door.

The lock clicked, and Stiles shoved open the door, spreading his arms wide. "Well, here is casa de Stilinsk—"

Derek watched as Stiles tried to step backwards into the house. And he only snorted a little as Stiles's heel caught on the threshold and Stiles went tumbling down.


	3. Chapter 3

Derek had been hoping that Stiles would consider sleeping it off.

He was sorely mistaken.

A Stiles, drunk and on drugs in a safe place, apparently meant a Stiles that was twice as hyperactive as normal.

It had been all right at first. Stiles had chugged down two glasses of water and eaten half a loaf of bread – _"T' soak up the alcohol, dude, obviously," –_and then he went to the bathroom and puked it all up again.

Once Stiles had recovered from that, he started a game of hunt-the-wolf. Derek did not get to be the hunter.

"_AHA!" _Stiles leapt out from behind the couch, somehow launching himself over it. His aim was off. Derek grabbed Stiles out of the air, just barely keeping the idiot from diving head first into the coffee table in the Stilinski house living room. Derek shoved Stiles back onto the couch, and Stiles bounced on the cushions.

Derek took a deep breath and forced his claws back. For the millionth time since hunt-the-wolf had started, he reminded himself that explaining to Sheriff Stilinski why his son and half the furniture in the house was broken would be far worse than just enduring Stiles's stupid antics. It was a close thing, though. A really close thing.

Stiles rolled on the couch, letting out a sharp laugh. "Dude! I almost got you!"

"No you didn't," Derek growled. Why couldn't Scott have picked up when Stiles called instead? Why had he decided to save Stiles from that stupid party? It was – he glanced at the clock on the wall and groaned – three thirty in the morning. He was going to kill something.

"I totally did," Stiles said. He got up on his knees, and then launched himself at Derek's back while Derek glared at the clock. "Ha! Caught the wolf!"

Derek growled. He could feel his eyes change as Stiles hung onto his back like some deranged little monkey. "I'm going to kill you," he said.

Stiles scrabbled up Derek, climbing him like a mountain – he ended up piggyback, arms around Derek's neck. "No you won't," he said, remarkably un-terrified.

"Why shouldn't I?" Derek demanded. Stiles was still hanging on, so he moved over to a wall and leaned back. Stiles made a noise that was close to the sound a squeaky toy made when it was stepped on, slowly being compressed between Derek's back and the wall.

Stiles scrabbled. Derek didn't care until Stiles accidentally poked him in the eye, and then grabbed his ear and held on for dear life. "Okay," he wheezed. "You might, but then you'd have'ta deal with my dad an' Scott wouldn't rejoin your pack—"

Derek rolled his eyes and stepped away from the wall. Stiles fell and bashed his face against Derek's back with a yelp.

"Will you _please_ go to bed?" Derek asked, between gritted teeth.

"Sourwolf," Stiles grumbled. Derek turned, glaring at Stiles over his shoulder. Stiles glowered back. "I'm the sheriff's kid, when'm I going to be able to enjoy drugs again? M'tryin' to make the best of it, here."

It was the tiredness talking, but Derek really wanted to say _I hate you_. He groaned instead, then moved back over to the couch and sat down.

Stiles waited a moment, like he was expecting Derek to do something more violent than melt onto the couch. He sprung to his feet a moment later. "I'm gettin' juice. Do you want juice? I'll get you juice."

Derek watched Stiles leave the room. He listened, just long enough to hear the scrape of glasses being moved around, and then he grabbed for his phone. He called up Scott's number and dialed.

Scott answered after the second ring.

"Scott," Derek started. He was _going_ to pawn Stiles off on someone better equipped to deal with him. It was _going_to happen.

Scott's voice came out as a hoarse growl. "No! It's three in the morning!"

Scott hung up.

Derek stared at the phone like it was a baby kanima. Scott had hung up on him. That little—he dialed the number again. It went to voicemail. Derek ground his teeth, and delicately set his phone down on the coffee table, claws extended. Something was going to get broken.

"Juice!" Stiles returned, carrying, as he said, juice. Derek stared at the glasses that Stiles carried. They were filled with orange-colored juice, but it didn't smell like orange juice.

"Is that—"

"Mango juice! It's good for you." Stiles shoved a glass into Derek's hand and then flopped onto the couch. "Dad was gettin' sick of just orange juice all the time, an' I didn't want him drinking, like, lemonade, which he thinks is a juice."

Derek grunted, only half listening. He took a sip as Stiles motored on.

"Hey Derek? I'm going to ask you a question and this is probably going to sound weird so don't like, stab me with your claws an' leave me for dead, okay, but do you think I'm attractive?"

Derek sputtered mid-drink. He could taste mangoes in his nose. "_What_."

Stiles gestured wildly, nearly spattering Derek with even more mango juice. "Well, I _asked_ Danny and he was all,_you're not my type Stiles, are you even gay Stiles,_ and, like, _I_ don't know, I've never kissed a guy, or, like, a girl, either, but—well there was a time, but I don't think it _counts_ – but anyhow so like 'cause _no one_ hits on me I was wonderin' if I'm just, I dunno, anathema to hot people, or what?"

Derek had no idea what to do with this. It was too late and Stiles was too…_Stiles_ and he had no experience in this arena. "You're fine, Stiles," he said, still smelling mango. He was relatively certain that there was mango juice in his sinuses.

Stiles turned to Derek, eyes dark and intense. "Yeah, but am I _attractive_? Like I think I'm pretty okay. I'd do me," he paused to indicate his body with a broad sweep of his arm, "but _no one else_ will. Is it 'cause I'm too cute to be hot?"

"What?" Derek stared. This was… this was ridiculous. Why wasn't he asleep at home right now? Why? "I—_Stiles_."

"Well?" Stiles stared back, wide-eyed and focused. More focused than he'd been fifteen minutes ago.

This was surreal. Derek growled, rolling his eyes. "Yes," he said, through clenched teeth. "Stiles, you are_attractive_. All right?"

Stiles took a drink from his mango juice, still staring unblinkingly at Derek over the rim of the glass. He swallowed and continued. "Okay, are you sayin' that under duress or d'you mean it?"

"Stiles," Derek growled. "I'm not going to say it again!"

"So you _are_ saying it under duress?" Stiles asked.

Derek rolled his eyes and growled. That was _it. _There was only so much an alpha could take.

He set his juice on the table. He grabbed Stiles's cup and yanked it out of Stiles's hand, despite the loud squawk Stiles made. Then he picked Stiles up, threw him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, and started for the stairs.

"It is _three_ in the _morning_ and you are _going to bed!" _Derek snarled over Stiles's very loud protests. Stiles kicked his free leg wildly, trying to break free, and he left a footprint on the wall as Derek climbed up the stairs.

"M' house!" Stiles shouted. "My rules! Let me _go!" _ When that didn't work, Stiles started yelling. "Rape! I'm being raped! Neighbors, call m' dad 'cause I'm being raaaaped!"

"Shut _up_, Stiles!" Derek growled. He made it to the top of the stairs, despite Stiles's wriggling, and he marched down the hall. The door to Stiles's bedroom was open, which Derek found helpful and also a little disappointing. He was in the mood to kick down a door.

He threw Stiles on the bed. Stiles bounced and scrambled halfway off the bed. He looked as if he were going to try and run for the open door behind Derek.

Derek kicked it shut. Then he was struck with the realization that Stiles was not going to end up staying in bed, even if the door were locked fifteen ways from Sunday.

The only idea he had was infantile and childish, but he was desperate and tired and angry and at the end of his rope. So Derek shoved Stiles back onto the bed and sat on him.

Stiles made the squished squeaky toy noise again. "What th' even hell are you doing?!"

"Making you go to bed," Derek growled. "and that wasn't _English_, Stiles."

Stiles wriggled wildly, trying to find some sort of escape. He tried to shove Derek aside, which worked about as well as a mouse trying to push over a brick wall. "Dude!" he squeaked, worming around, and again, "_dude!" _

Derek just glared at him.

After a few more minutes of struggling, Stiles quieted down. He fixed Derek with a look that was somewhere between injured puppy and helplessly enraged idiot, and he crossed his arms. "_Okay_. Fine. I'll go to sleep. But f'I vomit an' choke an' die in my sleep it's all your fault."

Derek pretended to mull it over before he shrugged. "That's a chance I'll take."

"You suck," Stiles said. Then, a moment later, "At least lemme take my shoes off! God!"

Derek glared again, for good measure. Then he got up, moving over to the chair sitting in front of Stiles's desk. Stiles sat up too, grumbling, loudly, as he unlaced his shoes and kicked them across the room.

Stiles scrambled back into bed, flopping down with a heavy sigh. Derek leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes and relishing the silence.

It wasn't comfortable, exactly, but for a moment Derek let himself space out. He'd slept in more uncomfortable places, and once his eyes drifted shut he really didn't want to open them again.

He heard Stiles shifting in bed. "…'re you just going to stay there?" Stiles asked, incredulous.

Derek stifled a growl, lifting his head up and opening his eyes to glower at Stiles.

Stiles glared back for half a moment, then rolled his eyes, throwing his hands in the air. "Fine! Creepy dark mysterious stalker werewolf…." He rolled over, punching his pillow into shape and grumbling as he did.

Derek waited. It was only a few minutes until Stiles's breathing evened out, but it felt so much longer than that. Without Stiles's annoyingly high level of hyperactivity, Derek found himself drowsing. Listening to the rhythmic sound of Stiles's breathing wasn't helping at all.

He only realized he'd fallen asleep in the desk chair when he looked at the clock and realized that it was four thirty-six. He rubbed his eyes and stumbled to his feet, walking half-asleep over to Stiles's bed.

He didn't mean to sit down on the edge of the bed. He'd just meant to check on Stiles, to make sure he hadn't – as Stiles had said earlier – choked on his own vomit. Stiles was still breathing steadily, face half-buried in the pillow.

The bed was comfortable. Derek moved over to the other side, as far from Stiles as he could manage. He'd only close his eyes for a couple minutes, because driving this tired was bound to end in an accident, and then he could go home…


	4. Chapter 4

Derek woke up with his nose in Stiles's armpit and with Sheriff Stilinski in the doorway.

The next thing he noticed was the gun; he tried to leap off the bed, but found out in the least-dignified way that Stiles had looped his leg around Derek sometime in the night.

"Waugh!" Stiles woke up flailing, and he elbowed Derek in the nose. That was when he noticed the sheriff, and the gun, and much in the same way that Derek had tried to fling himself away Stiles jerked away from Derek and slammed into the wall.

"Dad why wouldn't you knock?!" Stiles shrieked.

Derek scrambled off of the bed and stumbled to his feet. He edged towards the window, just in case, his eyes still on the sheriff's gun. The alpha in him wanted to stand and fight, but he knew that was stupid and quashed the impulse immediately.

"Oh my god dad why is your gun out," Stiles continued, going into full-on panic mode. Which meant rambling. "we do not fire off our guns in our son's room okay dad this is a _brand new rule_ I'm making up _right now—"_

The sheriff's eyes widened a little bit as Stiles shouted, and he moved quick to put his gun back in his holster. He sent a strange look Derek's way, but spread his hands out in front of him in the traditional I'm-unarmed gesture. "Whoa, okay, Stiles—"

"_What?!"_ Stiles yelped.

"…uh. Can we talk?" Sheriff Stilinski put his hands on his hips, gesturing with his chin towards the hall. His eyes kept flickering between Derek and Stiles, and Derek could smell the confusion and the frustration in the air.

Stiles finally caught on, and his head whipped around. He stared at Derek, eyes wide, mouth working wordlessly. Derek could see the gears turning in Stiles's head, could see that Stiles was finally realizing what it looked like. Derek ground his teeth, and he shrugged.

After a moment Stiles threw his head back and groaned. He clambered out of bed and stomped into the hall.

Sheriff Stilinski finally turned his full attention on Derek. Derek stiffened, standing a little straighter and lifting his chin. He was an alpha, and he wasn't going to be cowed. Even if this situation was completely ridiculous.

"Just… stay," Sheriff Stilinski said, pushing a hand towards Derek like he was using some psychic power to enforce the command. Then he went into the hall to talk to his son.

Soon as Sheriff Stilinski was out of hearing range, Derek let out a frustrated growl. He glanced at the window and deeply considered running for it anyways. He hadn't done anything illegal, so if he ran there would be no reason for Sheriff Stilinski to hunt him down. Then he remembered that the keys to the Camaro were on the coffee table in the living room. He couldn't just leave the Camaro.

"Dad—" Stiles started, out in the hall. With one more little growl, Derek crossed his arms and eavesdropped.

"Uh-uh," Sheriff Stilinski said, his voice no-nonsense. "I get to ask the questions here—"

Stiles, being Stiles, didn't listen. "Dad, hold on, it isn't what it looks like. Me and Derek aren't sleeping together. We were just…sleeping together." Derek winced at that. "I mean—no wait okay so that, that still sounded bad, huh. Okay, no, really—"

"—Stiles—"

"—Look I was in a bad place—"

"—_Stiles—" _

"—and I just needed a ride—oh my god that still sounds dirty doesn't it—"

"STILES!" Sheriff Stilinski snapped. Miraculously, Stiles shut up. Derek was trying very hard not to jump out the window and just run for it. Stiles was not the sort of person who could get out of this without sounding like a complete idiot, and Derek was suffering severe contact embarrassment just listening in.

After a moment's hesitation, Sheriff Stilinski continued. "…look, son, I'm sorry."

"Dad what—" Stiles started.

"At the club." There was vague frustration in the Sheriff's voice. "When Danny got hurt? I'm sorry I didn't believe you. I was stereotyping, and that was wrong."

Stiles started making noises like the squeaky wheel on a shopping cart. Sheriff Stilinski continued on, the stilted awkwardness clear in his voice.

"It's completely all right if you're gay, son. There's nothing wrong with that, and you don't need to hide it, all right? Just… tell me next time—someone's staying the night. I about had a heart attack when the jeep wasn't in the driveway and someone else's was."

Stiles was still making broken shopping cart noises, which gave Sheriff Stilinski the chance to say one more thing.

"But…Stiles, Derek Hale?" Derek could hear the cringe in the Sheriff's voice.

Stiles made another offended squeaky noise. "W-what's wrong with Derek Hale?"

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose, only just holding back a groan.

"Well, you and Scott fingered him for murder, for one," Sheriff Stilinski said. "And he's older thank you. Like, a lot older."

Derek could hear Stiles clap a hand to his face. "Oh my god dad don't use the word 'fingered' ever again," Stiles said. "and I already said we're _not sleeping together!"_

For a moment the silence dragged out between them. Then, the Sheriff continued. "…this been going on long?"

"No, it's a pretty recent development," Stiles grumbled.

Once again, that awkward brand of father-son silence that seemed to run in the Stilinski family filled the hall. Derek scowled. He really wished that he hadn't picked up the phone last night.

"Well," Sheriff Stilinski said, voice gruff. "To be honest, I thought you were bein' kinda squirrely because of a drug problem. But if it's just dating someone older… I'll let it go. Rather it be that instead of drugs."

"Oh my god, dad," Stiles muttered again. The mortification was clear in his voice. Derek could sympathize.

"Guess that's all there is to that," Sheriff Stilinski muttered. Derek could hear the sheriff give Stiles an awkward pat on the shoulder.

Derek stood a little straighter as the Stilinskis returned to Stiles's room. It was hard to keep his expression neutral, like he hadn't heard the conversation at all, and even harder not to glare at Stiles when Stiles looked between Derek and the window with an expression that clearly said he'd have been happier if Derek had bailed out.

"So," Sheriff Stilinski said, standing in the door with his hands on his hips. It didn't disarm the tension in the air at all. He looked between Stiles and Derek, brows wrinkled just a little as he noted the not-quite-glares. "Who wants breakfast?"


	5. Epilogue

It had been a couple weeks since Derek tried to call Scott at three in the morning. Scott hadn't heard anything from the pack since then. Whatever it had been, he assumed it must have been taken care of, because no one else called him after that.

Scott didn't realize anything had changed until the fateful night that Isaac sent him a text that only said _help_. He rushed to the abandoned railway station, where what was left of the pack still hid out; he found Isaac fidgeting at the top of the stairwell, everything about him screaming _nervous_.

"What is it?" Scott asked. "What's the matter?"

"It's _them,_" Isaac said, meeting Scott's gaze with wide eyes. "They've been playing Battleship for two hours and I think Derek is going to kill Stiles soon because Stiles has won like five times in a row and I'm pretty sure he's cheating."

Scott couldn't comprehend what Isaac had said for a moment, because 1) Stiles doesn't hang out with Derek Hale, 2) Battleship? Really? So the first thing out of his mouth was "But Stiles doesn't cheat at Battleship."

Isaac just gave him a look, and then without another word Scott was down the stairs and into the railway station.

Scott got partway down the stairs, Isaac at his shoulder. He stopped dead halfway down.

It was exactly like Isaac had said. Derek and Stiles were sitting across from each other, Derek brooding in the direction of his battleship board and Stiles busily chewing away at the string from his hoodie.

"B-7," Derek growled.

"Missed again, dude," Stiles said, dropping another white peg into place.

Derek made a rumbling noise that sounded a lot like a very angry engine starting up. Stiles chose that moment to glance up, and he blinked, jaw going slack. The string of his hoodie hang limply at the corner of his mouth. "Hey, Scott. What's up?"

"What do you mean what's up?!" Scott hissed. He made a wild, all-encompassing motion towards Stiles and Derek. Derek refocused that brooding glare on Scott and Isaac. "You're playing Battleship and you didn't_tell me?!" _

Stiles shrugged. "It's date night."

Scott nodded, like it made sense. And then the words processed. "_What?!" _

"Your friend the _genius_ told his dad we were dating," Derek snarled.

"Hey, it is _not_ my fault that you were sleeping in _my_ bed, dude," Stiles said, giving Derek a sidelong glare. "So we're keeping up appearances just long enough that we can have a believable breakup and dad won't catch on to the wolfy stuff."

Scott stared. He turned to Isaac, who fixed him with that lost, scared puppy look. Scott opened his mouth, turning back to focus on Stiles and Derek. Unfortunately his brain didn't supply any words to go with that openmouthed stare.

Derek glared. Stiles grinned. "I know, right? Hey, Derek. A-10."

Derek glanced down at the battleship board. "I am going to rip you apart and they will never find the pieces," he said.

Stiles just pumped his arms in the air, a gleeful look on his face. "I win again!"

Isaac leaned in, whispering to Scott. "See what I mean?"


End file.
